


crazy for you

by orphan_account



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 1980s AU, Cute, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, literally just shameless fluff honestly, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 19:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Like he was made here, almost. Borne of rising stars and setting suns, and James breathes a life into him, whispering lyrics into his skin like he's painting them





	crazy for you

**Author's Note:**

> [heres a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DHutZXREZ0E). its this fics namesake lol. enjoy this.
> 
> also it takes place like early-mid 1980s, so kinda read it with that whole aesthetic in mind.

It’s all painfully domestic, George thinks.

Sitting in James’s car, watching himself in the smashed wing mirror, watching the setting sun cast pink and gold and orange across the dashboard. Brushing fingers when they go to turn the music up.

The car can barely take it, really, George knows. The speakers are not exactly new, and sometimes, if they go too loud, it clips the edge of the bassline. But he doesn’t care, and he knows James doesn’t either. There’s no place either of them would rather be.

It does feel like they’re playing up to stereotypes, though, just sometimes. But George has spent far too many nights like this to want to change it. Listening to ‘Wham!’ in James’s car, holding tight on his fingers, and kissing across the centre console. It feels more like home than home does.

Like he was made here, almost. Borne of rising stars and setting suns, and James breathes a life into him, whispers lyrics into his skin like he’s painting them. 

“Hey,” James says, soft and quiet and slow, like everything always is out here. He reaches out, brushing his fingers against George’s jaw.

George watches James curl his hand under his chin in the wing mirror, before James turns his face towards him. “Yeah?”

James’s hands are big, although maybe George is just small. His fingers are long, and thick, stark in contrast to George’s own, but there’s something comforting about it.

“You look pretty like this,” James tells him, the words whispered. They’re words just for them, spoken into non-existence like nothing ever came before them. James does this, tossing out wordless compliments like they’re nothing.

“Like what?”

“This,” James says, moving his thumb to brush over George’s bottom lip.

“Tell me,” George asks. The song moves to the next one, and George Michael’s voice drips out of the speakers like molten tar.

James smiles, soft and slow. “You’re always pretty, George. But don’t you think everything feels different when it’s like this?”

“Different how?” George says, even though he knows. He lifts his own hand to balance it atop James’s, feels their pulses align beneath their skin.

“Everything is prettier when you’re with me,” James murmurs. George can barely hear him over the music. He can’t remember which album this is, but James has slowly gotten into making mixtapes. Maybe it’s one of them - the backseat of James’s car is so covered in cassette tapes, George can hardly tell one from another. “I like you like this. I like you always.”

“It’s too late for you to be so sweet,” George whispers, reaching out with his own fingers to trail them over James’s cheek. He does look beautiful here, with the setting sun turning everything before and after them into molten gold.

“It’s half past,” James says, chuckling under his breath. “And you’re drunk.”

“‘M not drunk,” George says, “Haven’t drunk anything tonight, if you remember.”

“Drunk on happiness then,” James tell him, “on love. I can see it, you know. In your eyes.”

George laughs. “You can’t see shit.”

James smiles too, but he says, “Yeah, I can. See it every time I look in the mirror.”

“Oh - don’t. The sun turns you soft,” George says. He ducks his gaze, dropping James’s eyes, but he can still feel his smile on him. “Like I said, it’s too late for this.”

“Let me kiss you,” James says, instead of answering properly. “If it’s too late for talking, then let’s not.”

George shakes his head. “What if we accidentally put the car into gear?”

“We never have before. What sort of kissing are you trying to do here, George?” James asks, “Come ‘nd sit in my lap if you’re that worried.”

“‘M not worried,” George says. “And I’m not trying anything.” But he climbs across to sit on James’s thighs regardless, because he can’t imagine a world in which he wouldn’t. It’s kind of uncomfortable, squirming around the gear shift and handbrake, crawling over the centre console like he hasn’t done it a thousand times over by now, but he gets there. He always does.

“One day, you’ll be good at that,” James whispers into his collar bones, once George has moved and relaxed into James. 

“Don’t hold your breath,” George replies, linking his hands behind James’s head. “Are you going to kiss me, then?”

James breathes a smile, leaning forward slightly to grin against George’s lips. George’s body casts James’s face into shadow, hiding the molten lava spilling through the sky behind them, but it doesn’t make them any less beautiful, he thinks.

Perhaps even more so, George thinks, curling his fingers into James’s hair when he finally started kissing properly. James is always beautiful.

They never go further than this, further than kissing under the blanket of sugar sweet sunsets and the safety of whichever song James is in the mood for today. But George doesn’t mind, maybe he likes it even better than anything else they could do. Sitting atop James’s lap, hearing their hearts beat in tandem, kissing sun warmed lips. Nothing more could be better, he’s sure of it.

The tape runs out eventually, of course it does. The song changes from one George vaguely recognises to a soft fuzzing. It’s a sharp reminder that they don’t, in fact, have all the time in the world, no matter how much it feels like it. It’s a cold, disappointing reminder, but one they’ll always need.

He pulls away from James slowly, reluctantly. “We ought to leave soon. There’ll be more people around soon, and my parents expect me home soon.”

“Mm,” James says, the words falling through bitten-red lips, “Who cares?”

George giggles, touching his finger to James’s bottom lip. “I care. C’mon, James. Take me home.”

“If I must,” James says, “Or I could steal you away forever, we’ll live on the backseat and spend all our days like this.”

“Maybe one day,” George says, crawling over to the passenger seat. “Come on. It really is getting late, and the sun set is nearly over.”

“I don’t want it to be,” James whispers. He links their fingers together, resting on the console, like he can’t stand to be apart for too long.

“We’ll come out again tomorrow then,” George tells him. “Come on, James. Mum’ll ground me if I’m not home soon.”

“As if you won’t just sneak out again,” James says, but he lifts his fingers and starts the car up again. The broken wing mirror shudders slightly, just like it always does, and the fuzzy pink die hanging from the rear-view mirror rattle around as well. The die were a present from James’s aunt, George knows, a hand-me-down that smelt so strongly of cigarette smoke that sometimes they still gag over it. 

“As if I’d do such a thing,” George says. He reaches over the centre console before James can start driving, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “As if.”

It makes James laugh. “As if. Here, fetch a new cassette. I’ll let you pick the music.”

“Really?” George asks. James nods, resting his hands on the steering wheel, so George peers into the backseat and plucks one at random. He doesn’t look at the album, nor the title, handing it over to James and watching him push the tape into the radio. 

“Madonna,” James says, making a face, inspecting the case.

“Is that good or bad?” George asks.

“You tell me,” James says, pulling out onto the road. 

George hums, listening to Madonna sing, crackly through the old speakers. They ought to be replaced, really, but George knows James is saving for an entirely new car, no hand-me-downs, terrible radios, or fuzzy pink die in sight.

* * *

James stops on the corner of George’s road. They never dare go any closer, but George doesn’t mind. He prefers kissing James goodbye away from all the streetlamps, regardless. And George knows he always waits until he gets inside to pull away, anyway. He knows James is always there.

So it doesn’t matter. He kisses James goodbye like they do every night, James watches him disappear into his house, and George rushes up to his bedroom to catch the tail end of James’s car pulling away from his road.

It’s how it goes. It’s good like that.

**Author's Note:**

> bit of a uh. what we in the know would call a Certified Rare Pair. all my other fic so far has followed that sort of happy-sad-happy rhetoric, so heres a bit of happy-happy-happy. please lmk what u think, id love to know! might fuck around and uhhh write these again.
> 
> also ive been crossposting my oneshots in a book on my [wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/downthedarkpath) too, if u want to go and read that. idk if that's ur thing, but i know some people prefer it so. its there, i suppose.
> 
> thank u for reading! ily.


End file.
